


Dear Hearts and Gentle People

by FlowerCrownOfPoppy



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Post-Apocalypse, dorian being a snarky shit, references to cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-16 10:16:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4621545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlowerCrownOfPoppy/pseuds/FlowerCrownOfPoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of the world is the beginning of a new one, a chance for failed nations to rise from their own ashes and begin again. Reality, Dorian learns, is far from that notion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall

**Author's Note:**

> I can't take all the credit for this idea. I'd like to thank trashabellanar on tumblr for some splendid ideas about a post apocalyptic universe for Dragon Age. I intend to only write 3 chapters for now, though I certainly could expand on this in the future if time permits. Hopefully you enjoy my spin on it!

Dorian has never run this quickly in his life. Bootsteps echo off the peeling walls in a staccato that offsets the shouting behind him. He hears half mad ramblings, nonsense he’s too preoccupied to decipher. One corner rounded. Two. Old velvet curtains and a mic stand blur at his peripheral vision. An old stage creaks under his weight as he launches himself off of it and shoves rotting dinner chairs aside. The floors after centuries are still slick underneath the dust, his feet practically skidding on the wood.

This is what he gets for braving old world bars on the slight chance that some innocent lone bottle of merlot needed saving from a dusty corner. Naturally he hadn’t been expecting an ambush in what was supposed to be a neglected establishment but he’s quickly learning that _supposed_ is a fluid term in the south. 

Adrenaline races through his system as he practically bashes the exit door open. He’s barely clear before his assailant bursts out behind him, swinging blindly where he was a few heartbeats ago. It's too dark to see a face without the flashlight -- damn him for dropping it and double damn him for losing his quarterstaff in the ensuing scuffle. Whoever they are the tire iron in their hands doesn’t look inviting in the slightest. He hardly has time to balance himself before his attacker roars and swings again, air whistling across his front.

It's too difficult to both dodge the increasingly frantic blows and fight off his hangover from the night before. The best option he has is waiting for an opening and going in with his pocket knife for a quick stab in the neck. How to do that without breaking several bones is another matter.

It takes a couple more swings for Dorian to see the opening he requires; his attacker strikes a bit too forcefully and is tipped off balance for no more than a second. He lunges forward, knife at the ready, preparing to jab it into his opponent's jugular --

The tire iron slams into his side. Pain sends him keeling over with a shout as his ribs scream from the impact, tipping over with another unforgiving blow. Through the haze of panic gripping him he feels cold dirt soften his fall. For some reason his thoughts form infuriatingly slowly; _splendid job, Dorian_ , they say. _This is the way you go out, wiggling on the ground like an earthworm with a seizure. They'll sing tales of your deeds for centuries._

Self loathing is a poor last few seconds to spend alive but every attempted movement only rewards him with more blinding pain. His entire left side burns with every shallow breath and it takes him a moment to realize a lack of blows follow. He’s dimly aware of footsteps shuffling around him, the outline of dirty boots stepping into view. He spits on them and offers one last curse in Tevene.

An ugly sound flies free of his throat as the air is kicked out of his belly, and the next thing he knows the world goes black.


	2. Butcher Pete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's knight in not so shiny armor arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning ahead for some violence. It's nothing too explicit.

Dorian was a man of many things but particularly took pride in being a man of experience. One nightmarish fling of note he recalled waking up with a hangover, tied up in the bed of someone who's name he couldn't even recall with a kitschy lawn ornament resting ominously between his legs. How naive, in retrospect, how tame in comparison to _this_ : disorientated and more bruise than skin, shivering from the cold stone scraping at his cheek. So, not dead then. Wonderful. When he jerks his wrists coarse rope threatens to chafe them. Not so wonderful. On the bright side at least there are no garden gnomes staring at his cock with their soulless beady little eyes.

“So the ‘Vint’s awake,” chortled a voice not at all friendly sounding. His intuition is proven correct when he’s yanked by the hair into an upright position. The pain is thunderous, so powerful it makes his teeth ache and a hoarse gasp escape him. A fresh wave of it is lightning quick across his scalp and chases away any remaining grogginess. He’s forced to look his captor in the eyes, or rather eye, as one of them’s filmed over with a cataract. His mouth alone is a horror to behold, more blackened teeth in those swollen gums than Dorian cares to count.

“I’ve gotten that popular already?” Dorian hissed back with another tug on his hair, “If you want me to write an autograph you might have to put the pen between my teeth, seeing as my hands are tied. You wouldn’t happen to know who did that, would y–”

He’s rewarded with a gust of foul breath in his face as the man laughs, a wheezing phlegmy sound. He’s shoved back into the ground while it reverberates in his rattled skull.

“Oh, you’re one of them alright," the rotten-mouthed bastard said, "Keep it up and I’ll boil your tongue. That’s a delicacy, you know.”

“To any southern savage, I’m sure,” Dorian grunted, a chill coursing through him regardless. Of all the backwater degenerates in this wasteland he had to come across one of the fucking _cannibals_. “Most of my people prefer to eat meat that won’t rot their brains out but to each their own.”

The man laughs again, spitting on the floor as he walks around what Dorian can only assume is the butchering table. He can’t see much from this angle and he’s grateful for it, because what he can see is coated in old blood. He must’ve been out for much longer than he thought if the smell hasn’t immediately made him want to vomit. He might just do it anyway from the nausea cramping his gut.

“You really want to know all the ways I could sell you back to your people, ‘Vint?” The man’s voice is punctuated by the unmistakable sound of butcher knives scraping together. Dorian’s heart leaps in his throat. “I’m still decidin’. Best pay would be slavery, I’d wager, or sellin’ your skins. Your ‘people’ have all those fancy tattoos. Worth a fortune if you know where to look.” Dorian’s not sure whether this cannibal is simply chatty or smart enough to attempt rudimentary psychological intimidation – no, he thinks, he’s giving him too much credit. Probably just chatty.

“Pray tell, what would you do with the money?“ Dorian groaned, "Buy a larger, slightly more rusty slaughterhouse to terrorize roamers in?”

He shuts up quickly when he hears the thud of a large knife being slammed into wood. He swallows hard and once again attempts to pull his wrists apart. No good, not the slightest amount of give. Reality was unfortunately starting to take root in his mind like a hellish weed.

“I’ll be back for you soon, ‘Vint,” the cannibal said, and the sound of his bootsteps faded away as the door slammed shut.

“Right then,” he said after a few moments of silence and hauled himself up into a proper sitting position. His entire body screams in protest and a curse rolls off of his tongue. He’d pegged the cannibal correctly then, just enough brains to tie up his hands but not enough to consider his ankles. He wiggles his toes; nothing broken, everything in working order. The effort of rising to his feet leaves him wheezing for air and aching from what were probably bruised ribs. Not a fracture, thankfully, no sharp stabbing pains in his side. Easy enough.

He pauses just before taking his first step. No man on earth was stupid enough to truly ignore tying up someone’s ankles, were they? It didn’t take an iota of intelligence to know that any able bodied human didn’t require its arms to accomplish standing, it was common sense.

That’s when his eyes caught something glinting faintly in the lamplight: threads so small you had to squint to catch a glimpse of them but they were there, stretched just above the ground in an intricate webbing. Traps. Dorian shivered again and took a deep breath. He’d been at a disadvantageous angle when the man was walking around but now he knew the cannibal truly was insane: he’d rigged the room in such a way you had to step very carefully or risk what was probably a painful death, or at least a maiming. He couldn’t tell just what exactly the threads were hooked up to and he didn’t care to find out.

“You can do this, Dorian,” he said to himself, a tactic of self encouragement he decided to feel embarrassed about at a much later date, “Just like mother used to drill into your little adolescent brain. One, two three.” He tried to maintain the tempo in his head, eyeing the threads carefully as he took one step for every count of three. He had no idea how long it would be before Cannibal returned and carried through on his threats but his attention was solely on the task at hand. The giant butcher knife had been left imbedded on one of the tables, forgotten, and it certainly looked sharp enough to cut through any sort of rope.

He was nearly there when he spared a glance at the table in the center and wished he hadn’t. Unidentifiable bits of matter lingered on the caked on grime and gore and just glancing at it made him feel like keeling over and expelling whatever remained of his lunch. _Enough sightseeing,_ he snapped at himself, sucking in a shaky breath between his teeth, _keep moving and you won’t wind up adding to the pile of bloody bits_.

Very carefully he turned around near the knife, craning his head as much as he could to see what he was doing. Not the best view, practically useless, but better than nothing as he pressed the rope against the blade and started moving his arms in a sawing motion.

Perhaps it was the impending threat of horrific death looming overhead but the process was going painfully slowly. Sweat dripped off his brow and nearly into his eyes with the effort. He kept expecting any moment for the sound of those boots to draw nearer and discover him there, a rat caught halfway out of the rat trap.

He could feel the rope was weakening, cut about halfway through when his nightmare was confirmed. The sound of boots returned, the stride slow but steady. He cursed underneath his breath and realized that even if he frantically attempted to finish he wouldn’t make it. The rope was still too thick to break with his strength alone. In a sudden burst of improvisation he grabbed the handle of the knife with his hands and swung his chest forward, yanking it out of the table and nearly pitching forward onto the ground. He managed to crouch against the table the second the door swung open, silently swallowing down his breath.

One step. Two. A gasp of unmistakable disgust and horror. "Maker’s breath … ” said a voice entirely unlike his captor’s. Dorian’s heart did that leaping-into-his-throat thing again as he considered his options. This man, whoever he was, believed in the Maker. Chantry associations, then. Still, between him and a cannibal that wanted to fashion his skin into a rug there was no contest.

“Yes, hello,” he called out weakly, hoping the man didn’t startle and run off, “Behind the table here, thank you. Mind the threads on the floor, I’m pretty sure they’re a trap of some sort.”

He heard the man startle and bring out some sort of weapon. “Who’s there?” the man called out firmly.

“I’ll explain when I’m not cowering on the floor of a cannibal’s lair about to become lunch or worse!” Dorian snarled, patience and good humor in understandably short supply. “Now hurry up before he comes back or we’re both filet mignon.”

The man that stepped into view was … not repulsive, all things considered. When he opened his mouth in surprise his teeth were mostly white and his eyes weren’t clouded over with cataracts, even if the bags underneath them were just a shade lighter than a ripened plum. His blonde hair appeared brushed within the past week despite the beard on his chin, though out here it was admittedly hard to find decent shaving cream. Not exactly the tall dark and handsome he’d envisioned in his savior fantasy but right now he’d take anything he could get. The rifle in his hands was an obvious bonus, even as he slung it over his back and crouched down.

“Oh, Maker,” blondie said, heeding Dorian’s advice as he carefully knelt down beside him. He caught a glimpse of the knife behind Dorian’s back and the sympathy on his face immediately vanished.

“Oh, come on,” Dorian snapped, “Do I _really_ look like I’m in a position to stab you right now? Take it.”

He angled himself so the other man could grab it and cut through the rest of the rope. When the job was done pulled himself to his feet. “My hero,” he said with a batting of his lashes, glancing at the door. He had at least twenty questions for this man but none of them could be answered before they were out of this basement from hell. “I’ll reward you with a kiss later, I’m assuming you know the way out.”

“Cullen. My name is Cullen. And er, yes,” Cullen said, carefully taking a few steps backward. The tripwires were understandably adding more tension to the conversation. Dorian wasted no extra time following him past them and around the gruesome table in the center. “Truthfully I was hoping to scavenge for something of use. I wasn’t expecting any of this.”

“Yes well I wasn’t expecting to get conked on the head and then converse with a madman,” Dorian grumbled, not sparing the room a single look backward. If he never saw it or any room remotely like it again he’d die a happy, fulfilled man. “Yet here I am. And here we are.”

“I still don’t understand. You were knocked unconscious and taken here?”

“Would you believe me if I told you my taste for fine wine got me in this situation? But yes, I was knocked out and dragged here by the same charming fellow that did all of this interior decorating,” Dorian said, gesturing with a wave of his hand, "I’m sure you can parse his intentions from his aesthetic choices. Give me the knife, I’d prefer to have some method of defending myself.“

"I just met you. I know I freed you but I’m not quite ready to put a weapon in your hands.”

“So if he comes down here swinging an axe you’re content to fight him alone. Brilliant tactic.”

Cullen gave him a look that would’ve been withering to the weaker hearted. Luckily Dorian wasn’t and they were almost at the door which, were he a more dramatic man, would’ve made him jump for joy while whistling the Chantry anthem.

“I didn’t survive out here by trusting strangers,” Cullen said with an air of finality. Before Dorian could protest the door burst open and Cannibal was on top of his savior, swinging a wicked looking kitchen knife with obvious intent. Not as terrifying as an axe but enough for Dorian to shout in alarm as they struggled. The knife in Cullen’s hand had flown to the side and Dorian immediately raced to grab it.

“ _Don’t_.” Cannibal’s voice was only slightly less pleasant than the sound of a nug's mating call.  Dorian shuddered as he turned around and saw Cannibal’s blade pressed against Cullen’s throat. He wasn’t dead, not yet, but the trickle of blood dribbling down his collar was as clear a threat as any. The “one more step towards that knife and I yank out his vocal chords" line he added seemed a bit excessive, all things considered.

Dorian glared, fists clenching and unclenching as he stood there with fear making his legs numb and the wild pounding of his heart drowning out any coherent thought. He didn’t want it to end like this. He didn’t want this man’s death on his hands, even if he was of the Chantry. There had to be something, _something_ –

And it was decided for him in the next moment as Cullen reared his head back and then slammed it into Cannibal’s. The knife cut deeper but not enough to cause lasting damage, it seemed, as Cannibal reeled back enough for him to get the upper hand. Dorian didn’t waste time watching the rest as he practically dove for the knife, scooping it up and whipping back around.

It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds but Cullen had already managed to turn the tables. Cannibal was on his back, yelling out curses as he attempted to buck Cullen off of himself. Cullen held fast and shouted something at Dorian that Dorian couldn’t even understand, not in the bedlam.

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to do what he did next. He raced forward, Cannibal’s head writhing as he continued to shriek, using the momentum to swing his leg back then forward. There was a sickening crack and then Cannibal abruptly fell limp, head twisting at an awkward angle on the floor. Cullen waited for a heartbeat or two before letting go and hastily pushed himself to his feet. "Andraste’s knickers, you nearly popped his head off!”

“He’s alive, I think,” Dorian said uncertainly.

“He is,” Cullen said, watching Cannibal’s breath weakly rise and fall. He slid his rifle off of his shoulder and adjusted his grip. “But he won’t be for long. He’s too dangerous to let live.”

Dorian had no argument in Cannibal’s defense at all, quite frankly. He just nodded and briskly walked out of the room, down the basement hallway. It was as gloomy as the basement itself but with decidedly less gore which made it a significant improvement. Since he had no other room to compare it to in this building it was as wonderful as any old world Chantry chapel sans the holy sisters. What wasn’t so wonderful was the sound of a gunshot rolling down the hallway like a thunderclap, fading into an ominous echo.

Dorian swallowed hard and tried not to think about how many people had met their end on that table before Cannibal met his end on the floor.

 


	3. Way Back Home

Dorian had nearly forgotten what natural light looked like; even if it was currently pouring through filmy glass windows, the sight of it made his spirits soar. It was day, then, though from inside here it was impossible to tell what hour. The store was completely devoid of anything useful, shelves scraped bare centuries ago, but the storage room yielded much more promise.

It seems the cannibal had been smart enough – and he used that term loosely – to stock up a modest supply of canned food and medical supplies. His bag had been dumped in the corner, its modest contents left untouched since his abduction. Hell, there was even water that looked untainted. After uncapping a bottle of the stuff he gave it a sniff and then hastily gulped it down. Relief poured out of him until the last drop had been drained.

He was halfway through shoving supplies in his bag when he noticed Cullen standing there in the doorway, watching him curiously. He ignored him for the moment and finished grabbing what he thought he needed and  promptly picked up his bag. They exchanged looks for a moment before Dorian gestured at whatever remained.

“By all means,” Dorian sniffed, “I couldn’t take this all even if I wanted to.”

“How generous of you,” Cullen said dryly, eyeing Dorian the same way you’d eye a wild mabari. It was surprisingly cautious for a man that possessed far more firepower than the poorly armed soul before him. Dorian was almost convinced he’d jump at shadows in an empty room.

Dorian got out of his way and busied himself with preening his disheveled appearance in a nearby shattered mirror. Dusty and missing a few pieces, sure, but good enough for him to smooth back the wild strands of hair matted to his skin from sweat. He’d finally noticed the bump on his head from where the cannibal had rendered him unconscious and winced as he prodded it. That would take a good day or several to heal, he lamented. He studied himself for a few more moments before Cullen’s voice cut through his fussing.

“What clan do you hail from?” Cullen’s voice was slightly muffled as he was busy scouring the cannibal’s stash for anything useful. Dorian had left him a few bottles of water and a spare medkit or two, repayment for saving his life and all that. Let it be known he wasn’t ungrateful or selfish … entirely.

“Now now, shouldn’t you take me to dinner first?” Dorian turned around and played with the fringe of his sleeve. He might’ve come from pampered origins but he knew that the ink on his skin was a death sentence in particularly unfortunate company. The trick was determining whether or not Cullen was that sort of company.

“Consider it a reward for my efforts instead of a kiss.”

“What a poor trade-in. Do you know how many men have fought each other to death for the right?”

Cullen raised his head and gave Dorian that funny look, heavy brows making his expression even heavier. It reminded him very much of those gloomy old world portraits that decorated the halls of his family's estate, the weight of the universe conveyed in one scowl.

Dorian found it ridiculous and a bit charming.

“I saved your life back there,” Cullen growled, yanking open his pack to stuff in as many water bottles as he could, “I need to know if all I did was save one sadist from another.”

“Alright, fair point,” Dorian sighed, leaning against the wall. He was too distracted to care about the grime getting onto his clothes at this point. “I’m from farther up north and I’m guessing you’re from the Chantry. Very few clans have access to old world weaponry.”

“You would be half right,” Cullen said, stuffing the medkits in next. They appeared unopened which didn’t surprise Dorian in the slightest. “I was a part of the Order.”

Dorian’s back stiffened despite himself. The Order. Templars. That explained how he managed to grapple with the cannibal without getting his throat slit open. He realized far too late that Cullen had raised his head. He'd been watching him closely for his reaction and no amount of deflection would quell his suspicions now.

“I suppose there’s no getting around this,” Dorian said, preparing to roll up his sleeve. His adam's apple felt very much like a real apple in his throat from the tension in the air. 

“Save it,” Cullen said dismissively, closing his bag, “I _was_ a member of the Order. I’m … I’m sure you really don’t want to hear why. Just rest assured I have no interest in blowing your brains out over clan based feuds. I put that life behind me a long time ago.”

A long time ago Dorian also would’ve bristled at that comment, claimed that Tevinter was no clan but a _nation_ , one of the few left. They’d retained most of their culture, their language, their customs. Their cities still stood in defiance of the apocalypse. Now, though. Now Dorian knew their ways could be as barbaric as any other.

“Well that’s reassuring,” Dorian chortled, pushing away from the wall, “And shows you possess a modicum of common sense. Good on you.”

“Of course, if I discover you’re a slaver I’ll be obliged to shoot you regardless,” Cullen added almost flippantly as he rose to his feet.

“No,” Dorian cut in, with more conviction than intended. The nonplussed look Cullen gave him wasn’t entirely undeserved. “I’ll save you my own personal sad tale as well but _that_ is one of many reasons I left my homeland.” Cullen snorted and slung his bag over his back. Dorian suspected he thought him madder than the cannibal.

“Perhaps I am a fool for saving your life after all," Cullen sighed, "If the Order knew what I'd done here I would be excommunicated on the spot.”

“Good thing you left first then,” Dorian said with a wink, picking up his own bag. They’d grabbed what they could from this place and there was no reason to linger. All in all revealing he was of Tevinter hadn’t ended catastrophically. Now they could part ways and be done with it before Cullen changed his mind.

“Yes. I suppose so.” Cullen took a few steps and paused, staring at Dorian a shade more intensely than he liked. “I’m aware this isn’t really my business but where on earth were you headed? The wasteland isn’t exactly a welcoming environment for a Tevinter.”

Dorian pursed his lips for a moment and considered his options. Did he stand to lose anything by by being honest here? After a few seconds of consideration he decided that no, it wasn’t. They were outcasts from their respective worlds here which put them on unsteady but equal ground. They’d already lost everything worth withholding. Well in Dorian's case, _almost_ everything.

“A pretty little bird informed me of a radical new sensation sweeping the nation,” Dorian said, hoping to mask the uneasiness within himself with a grin, “They call themselves the Inquisition. A pariah such as myself can hardly resist the charm of signing on for something so naïvely optimistic.”

Cullen stared, mouth dropping open an inch. Had his brief speech been that awe inspiring?

“Maker preserve me,” Cullen said in what sounded like pained amusement, a very hard thing to accomplish in the same breath, “This must be fate.”

“Come again?”

“I know of the Inquisition, alright. I am its commander.” The exhaustion in Cullen’s face vanished as shock swept over Dorian’s.

“You must be joking,” Dorian choked out, “What commander leaves his post to go rummaging through dirty basements!?”

“Not by choice. Look, if you want me to explain I will, but I must do so outside. My horse has been tied up for far too long and I’d hate for her to be stolen, seeing as she’s my only way back.”

Dorian couldn’t believe his luck here, quite literally. For all he knew this Cullen wasn’t even who he claimed to be. He could still belong to the Chantry. He could even be leading him into a trap for something potentially just as bad as slow, torturous death at the hands of a cannibal. He could. He could.

Oh to the void with it. Cullen had a horse, he didnt; Cullen had a fucking clue where he was going in this godforsaken wasteland and Dorian certainly didn’t. That cannibal could have dragged him miles from where he was assaulted for all he knew.

“Deal, then," Dorian said, leaning in dramatically, "Take me … “ His mustache was practically quivering with intensity. “Take me to your _leader_.” He waited for some sort of recognition to dawn on Cullen’s face but all he got was a blank stare and a couple of slow blinks for his effort.

“Vishante kaffas, are even old world science fiction novels forbidden in the Chantryl? Oh what am I saying, they probably mistake them for propaganda. ”

“You are the strangest man I’ve ever met, er. It just occurred to me you’ve never given me your name.”

“Dorian,” Dorian groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, “My name is _Dorian_.”

“Well Dorian,” Cullen said pointedly, brushing past him on the way out of the storage room, “you’re the strangest man I’ve ever met.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Dorian said, hastily following after him. “Give the world another five minutes and I’m sure it'll parade around something stranger.” The shop doors creaked as they pushed them open and walked out together into the sunshine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long to submit. School started about a week ago so I've been reorganizing myself and homework and blah blah blah. At any rate this short fic is done now so yay!


End file.
